William
“Once upon a time, there lived a little rabbit. Now, this rabbit was different from all the rest because he had orange-colored fur, with many blue and purple spots to go with it.” I pause for awhile, and shift my weight slightly to my other elbow so I can keep watch. “The rabbit was the laughing stock of the whole farm. The cow laughed at him, the horse laughed at him, even the mother hen, who was supposed to be quietly tending her eggs, laughed at him. He was so miserable on the farm that one day he gathered all his courage and ran far, far away from his home.” I pause again and watch as her chest rises and falls slowly. I listen carefully as she breathes, and stirs slightly.
I didn’t even get to half of her bedtime story and already, she’s fast asleep. I smile as I bring her blanket up to her shoulders, dim the lights, and ease my weight off the bed. Sometimes, she catches me before I’ve crossed her room to the open window that serves as my personal exit and entrance to her room, and then I’d have to get back in bed beside her and tell her another story, or just talk to her until she falls asleep again. She has trouble sleeping most of the time, and after nights of nonsensical stories or light banter, they eventually became her form of sleeping pills. I don’t complain. After all, staying up at night, talking until you can’t talk anymore is way better than taking real pills, right?
With one last look at her, I jump down from the ledge of her bedroom window into the knotted arms of an old tree in the backyard. I don’t need to look where I step anymore. My body has become so used to climbing up and back down the tree that my feet seem to have a mind of their own. I land softly, double check my surroundings and, when I’m sure that the coast is clear, jump the white picket fence and run all the way home.
Home is about two streets and a library away, and when I get there I jump our fence too, before stopping abruptly. It always takes me by surprise- the feeling that you’re a robber about to do an inside job on your own house. It’s crazy, I know, but it always happens to me; like I’m an outsider about to lift a few things from some innocent family’s place. I shake my head and proceed to opening the back door. I always carry the spare key with me in case of times like these, and though I could just hide it under a pot somewhere, I know that my mother or grandmother might happen to sweep the yard and find it. Believe me when I say; they never leave things unturned when they clean. So I carry around my own duplicate, and for the past few months, it’s worked like a charm.
The kitchen is dark and cold as usual when I enter. I grope blindly for the switch and flick it, blinking my eyes as they accustom themselves to the brightness. Without even putting my backpack down, or removing my sneakers, I go to the fridge and hunt down a later-than-midnight snack. Perfect. There’s leftover cheese pizza and a nice cold bottle of milk. Just what the doctor ordered. I balance the pizza and milk in one hand, and shut the fridge with the other, then race upstairs to my room where I toss my bag and shoes on the floor, settle the food on my desk, and collapse on my bed. I lay still for a few minutes hoping no one heard me.
I learned long ago that if you want to keep things as quiet as possible, like climbing the stairs for example, you’re better off doing it quickly while being light on your feet, than taking it slow and bumping into something that’ll just make enough noise to wake your mother. I tried all that spy-being-slow business, and the next thing I knew, I had bumped into one of our old china vases. Luckily though, my reflexes were at their prime that night and I was able to save the vase. But then, my mother came out of her room to get a glass of water and saw me in all my late-night glory, so of course, even if I did save that vase, I still got grounded. Oh well, I figured you can’t always win them all.
After I succeed in wolfing down the last two slices of pizza, and chugging down every last drop of milk, my face connects once more with my pillow and sleep takes over me in a matter of seconds.
-0-
The alarm clock is one of the most annoying things man ever invented. Just when you’ve gotten all warm and comfortable, and way deep into your sleep, deeper than when your dreams are so vivid it doesn’t really feel like you’re sleeping, the alarm clock decides to spoil your peace and quiet by clanging it’s head off. What’s more is it just keeps making noise until you get up from bed or put it on snooze and risk being late for school.
I read once that people who wake up with a frown on their faces usually go to bed with that same frown and that people should practice waking up with a positive attitude so the infamous String Theory works to their advantage. Well, how in the world do you wake up with a smile on your face when the very first thing you hear is that irritating, ear splitting sound of two pieces of metal banging against each other? Whoever invented the alarm clock must have had a crazed sense of what sounds good and what sounds bad.
I hit the twelve-eyed monster square in its face, making it land on the floor with a dull thud. I already know that it’s Thursday but force of habit makes me look at the calendar hanging forlornly on my wall anyway. Who knows? Maybe some fun-loving genie got reincarnated last night and wrote Thursday off the week, thus bringing in Friday and the end of regular school days a lot quicker.
“William Jonathan Hayes! Get down here this instant young man; I’m not getting any younger!”
Gran. My mom leaves for work early and it’s usually my grandmother who makes breakfast. I get up, grab my towel and make way for the bathroom. Same routine as always; take a shower, grab some breakfast, and leave for school. Honestly, sometimes I think the monotony of everyday is going to be the ruin of my brain.
Thirty minutes later I’m sitting on the old gym steps, watching people I know and people I don’t know pass by before the bell for first period rings. It’s an old habit of mine that’s stayed with me throughout all my academic years; find a quiet place where you can watch people do what they do without them being able to see you.
